


Mid-January, or Thereabouts

by lumiere42



Category: WKRP in Cincinnati
Genre: Couch-crashing like a stray cat, Depression, Disordered Eating, Herb is a clueless salesguy, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Questionable takeout food, References to Physical and Sexual Abuse, Seasonal Affective Disorder, Snowed In, Spot the Lovecraftian references, Unresolved Everything but Not in a Bad Way, Winter-related crankiness, Workplace Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24982087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumiere42/pseuds/lumiere42
Summary: No one's at their best in January. Especially when your brain, your ankle, and your workplace all go screwy on the same day.Follow-up to "And I Ran," but comprehensible without reading that first.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Mid-January, or Thereabouts

As she's lying there, head spinning, the cold of the pavement seeping through her coat, all she can think is: _Like a staff meeting first thing in the morning wasn't bad enough \--_

Once she can breathe again, she sits up -- slowly -- and checks: yes, it's that spot in the parking garage where it always leaks, now a thin sheen of ice because it's 15 degrees out, and of course no one had thought to put down salt in here. There's a big smudge of dirt on her coat and her left elbow is smarting. She scoots sideways till she's fully on gritty cement before getting up.

Bright pain flares in her left ankle, and she yelps briefly. _Damn_. At least she'd had the sense to wear flats, not heels, in this weather or it could be worse. Not that oversleeping and missing breakfast to get here vaguely on time for the meeting wasn't already worse --

"Get with the program, Quarters," she mutters, and limps resignedly toward the elevators.

*********

By the time she enters the station lobby, the pain has settled into a steady, lurking throb. Jennifer is at the desk, leafing through a magazine -- it looks like _Field & Stream._

"Going fishing?"

"Hm?" Jennifer looks up. "Oh, hi, Bailey. No, this came for Mr. Carlson. I'm previewing, so I can make small talk about this season's trends in rods and reels when it comes up."

"Clever."

"Proactive. Otherwise _he_ feels obligated to spend twenty minutes explaining things to me." Jennifer raises an eyebrow. "What happened to you?"

"I fell in the parking garage. Hey, could you let the custodian know someone should put salt down in that spot where it always leaks?"

"Roger."

"And, er, do you have any aspirin?"

"Absolutely."

She gets some coffee as Jennifer gets a bottle out of the desk drawer. Calling the coffee muddy is charitable -- Les must have made it again, or it's left over from last night, or both -- but it works to wash pills down.

"At least you don't have to go to the staff meeting," she says.

"No, but I have several of Mr. Carlson's business associates to call, _all_ of whom will be _wanting_ to arrange meetings, and I get to shoo them off while still maintaining pleasant dealings. Sometimes it's enough insincerity to make me feel like I need a shower."

"Sounds great. Can I join you?" And -- of course -- that's Herb coming in, coat thrown over his shoulder in his usual attempt to look charmingly casual, smiling his Very Winningest Sales Guy Grin.

Jennifer turns her very widest smile on him, the one where if you were a) a stranger or b) clueless, you'd think it was sincere. "Hello, Herb. Actually, I think a shower would be a very good idea for you."

"Really?"

"Yes. Why don't you turn around, go on home, and take a cold one?"

"You know, showering with a friend is good for the environment." Herb waggles his eyebrows.

"Oh, I think it'd be faster if we just hauled him downstairs and threw him in the river. What do you think, Jennifer?"

"That's an excellent idea, Bailey. Convenient _and_ ecologically sound."

Herb winks, but some of the swagger has gone out of it. "Whatever makes you happy, Jenny-poo."

"Herb? Every time you call me that, I have Andy take five dollars out of your next paycheck."

Herb laughs, and then seems to note that Jennifer's smile is back. "You're not serious, right?"

"Of course not. I have _Bailey_ do it -- she's the one who runs payroll."

"Bailey? You don't really -- "

"I will neither confirm nor deny, Herb."

Herb sputters slightly, then holds up a finger. "We _will_ revisit this at some point."

"Sure, but it'll have to be after this meeting."

Herb's eyes widen. "Oh, hell, that was _today_?"

"Already started, probably."

" _Jeez_ \--" He stares at Jennifer. "Hey, how come _you're_ never stuck going to these meetings?"

"I'm already perfect. _You_ , on the other hand, had better skedaddle. Andy's a little grumpy this morning."

Herb sighs and hurries past, in a little cloud of questionable cologne and a hint of -- no, that can't be scotch, it's 9:15 in the morning. She turns to follow him.

"Thanks for the aspirin," she says.

"No problem. Er, Bailey?"

"Yeah?"

A little pause. "I wasn't kidding about Andy."

"I'll keep it in mind."

She heads down the hall as fast as her protesting ankle will let her.

*********

Mid-January, or thereabouts, is when people here start to get a little frayed around the edges, metaphorically speaking, she thinks. It makes sense: the fun (or preoccupation, at least) of the holidays is over, spring won't really set in for another three months, and any novelty left in winter is gone, allowing in the odd little coping mechanisms needed for the long haul.

Andy's January thing seems to include notable reappearance of the Western-style shirts with the fringe and the pearl snaps, she thinks -- he's wearing one again, that's the third time this week. He's sitting on the edge of his desk, talking about ratings, but he pauses as she and Herb enter.

"Bailey. Herb. Nice of you to join us." His voice is uncharacteristically flat.

Herb smiles and shrugs, and for once she's glad he's there -- it would've been worse to come in alone. She takes a folding chair as inconspicuously as possible. Herb closes the door and leans against it, trying far too hard to look relaxed.

Venus is in the other folding chair, legs stretched out, dressed like he's just come straight from the club -- she hasn't seen that purple suit in a while. He's stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. Les is perched on the edge of the couch, well-starched bow tie and bright suspenders, eyes round behind his glasses, like an overeager twelve-year-old student in the body of a balding middle-aged man. Johnny's hunched up on the other side of the couch, feet on the cushions, in the same ancient bell-bottoms and ratty green hoodie he's been wearing for the past couple days. He looks oddly disheveled and morose, considering how manic he'd sounded on the radio as she was driving in; that combination means there's a better-than-even chance he's hungover.

"That brings us to specifics about you guys." Andy folds his arms. There are small dark circles under his eyes, she notes. "Fever?"

"Yeah?" Johnny doesn't even look up.

"See, the thing is, when people are listening to our station -- especially during morning drive time -- we want them to feel _good_ , y'know? Relaxed, maybe a little energized, definitely _happy._ That's important, particularly this time of year."

"What's your point?"

"My _point_ is --" Andy pauses, as if he's searching for the right words. "Do you really think playing 'Eleanor Rigby' and 'Hazy Shade of Winter' four times each in the course of one morning show is the way to go about that? Or do you think it might be more likely to make people want to stab themselves, or worse, change the station?"

"It was only two times each."

"Regardless. Ratings won't stay up if morning drive time sounds like a death march."

"Look, Travis, you trust us with our programming --"

"And _I'm_ the program _director_ , Fever. And if you don't start running a happier playlist ASAP, I'm gonna duct-tape you to a chair and play disco till your brain explodes."

"Not disco!" Johnny clutches his chest in mock horror.

"I mean it." Andy stares at him with raised eyebrows, till Johnny sighs and folds himself back up. "Bailey? _Slow down_ doing the afternoon news spots, all right? You've sounded like an auctioneer most of the week."

"Sorry."

"Herb? We need to talk about this new advertising client."

Herb grins. "Yeah, it's pretty terrific --"

"Smiling Sadie's? I have to ask, what made you think that was a good idea?"

"It's a fine and exclusive establishment with a long, distinguished history -- "

"It's a _strip club_ , Herb!"

Herb's smile fades. "Well, see, it's not exactly a _strip_ club, the bottoms stay on -- "

"Like there's really that much of a difference. Look, I know Mr. Carlson can be a little...aggravating...sometimes, but did you actually _want_ him to keel over from a heart attack when he found out?"

"Well, no --"

"Here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna call up Smiling Sadie's, tell them we're sorry for the inconvenience, they'll get a full refund of course, but we can't give them ad time on this station. Got it?"

"Do I have to?"

"I dunno, Herb. Do you like being employed?"

Silence, and then Herb sighs. "Okee-fine."

"Good. I'm glad we're on the same page. Les?"

"What'd _I_ do?" Les looks a little like a small, affronted rooster when he's surprised, she thinks.

"We need to talk about your last couple editorial spots."

Les glares. "Well, Andy, _I_ think we need to talk about it being a matter of free speech. Don't we stand for that as a broadcast entity?"

"Free _speech_ , Les, not...ranting about whatever political bee you've got in your bonnet --"

Johnny groans and pulls his sweatshirt hood over his head so his eyes are covered. Venus looks wearily over at her and mutters: "Settle in, champ, this could be a while," and all she can do is nod and try to tune out Les's aggrieved response.

*********

"A while" is only about ten more minutes, chronologically speaking, but by the time they're finally leaving Andy's office it feels like it's been hours. Since she's nearest the door, she's first out, but she stands aside to let the others through, a hand on the wall and her left foot lifted slightly against the dull pain in her ankle.

Johnny scuttles across the hall and into the DJ booth, muttering to himself. Herb follows a moment later, disappearing down the hall with a sour look on his face. Then Venus, blinking wearily, and stepping aside for Les, who pulls the office door shut behind him -- pointedly _not_ slamming it, she thinks -- before heading into the bullpen.

"Well, _this'll_ be a great day," she says to Venus.

"My sympathies. You should've been here earlier. I showed up just in time to hear Andy giving Moss what-for at the end of his shift."

"Anything interesting?"

"Debatable. I mean, Andy _does_ have a point about Moss constantly tracking in mud and damp and what-have-you -- and when I got here Moss was playing some kind of weird Gregorian chants and that's really not our demographic, but I'm not sure that matters on the late-night shift anyway. Besides, y'know, Moss is what he is."

"Did you even go home last night?"

"I was here till midnight, and then I checked out this all-night club."

_I was right_ , she thinks. "There's one _like_ that in downtown Cincinnati?"

"I give it about six months before it closes." Venus laces his fingers together and turns his hands outward to stretch his arms, with an alarming number of little popping sounds. "I think I'm getting too old for all-nighters."

"You do sound a little like a bowl of Rice Krispies."

"Just don't pour milk on me, huh? Though it'd probably be better than whatever that nerve gas is Herb's been wearing."

"I'll have to tell him to knock that off. That stuff makes me sneeze. Hey, I've got a lot of raw commercial material to edit into something coherent today -- do you know where the extra tape reels are?"

"We've got a couple spares in the record room somewhere."

"Thanks."

"Courage." Venus does a little wave and ambles off down the hall, humming something familiar -- Kool and the Gang, "Celebration," her tired brain finally registers.

_I'll need it_ , she thinks, and heads for the bullpen.

*********

She puts off the editing as long as possible, after the phone calls (unproductive) and the noon news spot (happily uncomplicated, Rex is out of the booth getting coffee so she doesn't have to smile and nod along with his usual burbling).

She ends up chucking most of her lunch sandwich into the trash -- somehow most edible things seem just _wrong_ this time of year -- and eating a couple of stale granola bars while eyeing the paperwork on her desk. Les is hunched over his desk like the world's least intimidating vulture, typing typing typing, and then the teletype starts clattering and the combination of noise settles it: at least the editing booth is comparatively quiet.

Putting weight on her left foot makes her bite her lip and take a deep breath to keep from actually making a sound. She manages to walk halfway normally till she gets out the bullpen door -- she doesn't want Les noticing, he'd make a fuss -- and then limps down the hall to get the spare tape.

It's colder than usual in the record room -- the grimy little window is propped open with a cobwebby box -- and the faint tang of tobacco smoke in the air explains that.

"Johnny?"

A dull voice from behind the second row of shelves: "He evaporated. I'm a recording."

She smiles at that, and goes to look down that row. Johnny's sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a pile of jacketed records in his lap, several more little stacks around him. He looks up at her once she's standing next to him. "How'd you know it was me?"

She gestures vaguely toward the open window. "Every January, you start up with cigarettes again. By mid-February, you're complaining about how they make your voice sound, and you've quit again by March. I figured it _had_ to be you in here."

"Nothing gets by you, Girl Reporter."

She spots the tape reels on top of a nearby shelf, and balances awkwardly on her right foot to reach up and grab them. "What are you still doing here? It's after one."

"Looking for some things to perk up the playlist before Travis flips out. You think morning drive-time people would go for an all-Bo Diddley hour?"

" _They_ might. I don't know if _Andy_ would."

"Yeah, he'd probably say it wasn't Top 40 enough." Johnny makes a little face. "He pretty much always says that. Don't know why he bothers."

"He's probably just cranky because it's winter. You've noticed he's been talking about Santa Fe a lot more lately?"

"Yeah, I bet he never threatened anyone in Santa Fe with duct-taping." Johnny rolls his eyes. "Really, who's lived in this city longer, him or me? He doesn't think I know what the listeners like by now?"

"Well, yeah, but --"

"Two years I spent here, spinning elevator music and running ads for regularity tonic, and then he gets hired and changes the format -- thank _God_ \-- says he trusts me to pick my own music, but then he gets all bent out of shape when I actually _do_ it?"

"True, but --"

"I mean, my show _is_ our biggest ratings draw, he could at least acknowledge that I might know what I'm doing." He sighs. "You were saying?"

She tries to keep the annoyance out of her voice -- God, she hates being interrupted. "Look, I don't think Andy meant anything about your skills, but -- people like _upbeat_ stuff in the morning, right? Especially in winter, when you're, y'know, driving to work when it's still dark."

"Really?" Johnny puts the stack of records he's holding aside. "Of course, you're basing this on some sort of extensive DJ experience of your own? Or you figure college and then three years here is somehow the same thing?"

"No! It's just, listening to your show on the drive in is kind of...turning into a big downer lately."

"Is that so?"

"You want me to be honest? It is. You're all over the place and your playlist is depressing. Andy's got a point."

Johnny glares blearily at her. " _Well_ , if I'm such a _downer_ , why are you even bothering?"

"That's not what I meant."

"Look, why don't you just...go take care of the work you actually know something about doing, and leave me be, huh?"

She stares at him, and then suddenly she's shaking, hands clenching on the tape reels. " _Fine_ , Caravella, _be_ that way, you miserable lout."

She just manages not to slam the door on the way out.

*********

By the time she finishes the editing, Venus (looking far more awake and casually dressed) is in the DJ booth doing the opening for the evening show. He waves at her through the little window, and she waves back and gingerly gets to her feet.

Her ankle has settled into a dull throb while she's been sitting in the editing booth, but by the time she's in the bullpen putting on her coat, it's going sharper again. She limps carefully out of the offices, noting the snow whirling past in the darkness outside the hallway windows.

She leans against the back wall of the elevator as it drops, left foot up flamingo-style. She can't wait to just get _home_ and crash on the couch. _And I'm leaving said couch as little as possible this weekend_ , she thinks.

Her car is freezing, but it's a relief to be able to sit down again. She fumbles the key into the ignition, and --

"Dammit!" she hisses. It's the clutch, it's balky sometimes anyway and her ankle must have swelled up, she can't bend it enough to depress the pedal properly. She tries moving the seat up closer, till she's practically on top of the steering wheel, but even then she can only get the engine up briefly before it stalls out.

She sighs and climbs back out, standing there on one foot with a hand on the door. _So what do I do now?_ Building management has people towed if they're parked on this floor overnight, and then there's the little matter of getting _home_ , she doesn't have much cash on her for transport.

_Maybe I should just tie a breakdown flag on the door handle, go catch the bus, and hope for the best._ Except the bus stop is a couple blocks away, and if just walking down here had hurt that much --

"Bailey?"

She jumps and yelps, then turns around. Johnny's standing there, slouching, a styrofoam takeout box in one hand and a fine dusting of snow on his hat and coat.

" _Jeez_ \-- don't sneak up on a woman in a parking lot like that! You're lucky you didn't get maced!"

"Point taken. But, hey, I'm glad I caught you before you left."

"What do you want?"

"I --" Johnny looks down at the takeout box. "I wanted to apologize for earlier."

"You should." She can feel the snarl of annoyance at him starting to dissolve, but she doesn't want to let him off _too_ easily.

"I know. I was being a dipshit."

"You were. And apology accepted."

"Thanks." Johnny looks back and forth at her and the car. "So, you waiting for the car to start dancing, or -- ?"

"I, um, can't get it to start."

"Oh. Hey, I'll go back up and cover for Venus, he can come down and jumpstart it off his car quick --"

"No -- I mean, it's not that --" Now she just feels stupid. "Look, I...fell this morning and did something to my ankle, and it's a stick shift, and now it won't bend -- my ankle, I mean, not the car --"

" _Oh_."

"Yeah, I can't make the clutch work. I'm trying to figure out what to do, you know how building management is about towing people and I'm not even sure I have enough bus money." She stares down at the driver's seat, feeling a blush creeping over her face.

Johnny's voice, slightly hesitant: "If you want, I can drive you? Just, get you and the hoopty here back to your place, and I'll call a cab from there?"

She looks up at him. "You can drive stick?"

"It's been a little while, but yeah."

"You're...completely sober right now, right?"

"What do you --" Johnny sighs. "Fair question. The answer's yes."

"Okay then." She steps aside and gestures to the driver's seat, and he hands her the takeout box before climbing in.

*********

To Johnny's credit, he only grinds the gears twice (and bounces the car off the curb once, but to be fair that corner at the bottom of the interstate off-ramp is tricky, especially in the dark with so much snow coming down it's like being inside a giant Parmesan shaker).

Getting up the stairs to get into her apartment building makes her grit her teeth and grab the handrail with a death grip -- the last thing she wants is to look like some sort of damsel in distress. Then near the top dizziness comes down over her in a wave, and Johnny's suddenly grabbing her with a muttered "Whoa there," and she slowly tilts back upright from a sideways slump.

He helps her get to the couch once they're in the apartment, and God this is embarrassing but between the pain and how her head's whirling she's not going to protest. She just remembers to get her left foot up on the coffee table before going limp against the cushions and staring.

Johnny's voice, above her: "It's that bad you almost passed out? What'd you _do_?"

"No, it's --" She has to pause to get the words out. "I...just didn't eat that much today."

"Define 'much.'"

"Um, a couple granola bars? I --"

And then the takeout box is in her hands and she's staring at it in vague puzzlement. "Here. Some of that, then."

"No, it's all right --"

"Hey, doctor's orders. I'm gonna go take care of the cab thing."

She nods, leans her head back against the cushions, and closes her eyes. Soft sounds float in from the kitchen: the radio on low, just loud enough for her to identify spritely R&B (Venus's show, she thinks); pages turning and Johnny muttering in between staccato phone-dialing. Then she remembers about the food.

There are some pizza slices stacked in the box, lukewarm and slightly congealed. A couple bites of one, and she's distantly surprised to find herself scarfing it down, and then another. She's glad no one's in the room with her.

"Oh, _hell,_ " Johnny says from the kitchen, quietly but vehemently.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, just -- Venus just said public transit's closing, with this snow, and people aren't answering when I'm calling."

She closes the takeout box and puts it on the end table. Her head is already clearing. She's able to get her coat off without having to stand all the way up, thankfully, though her arms have stiffened up a bit after the fall.

She takes off her shoes, and then gingerly rolls her left knee-high down. Her ankle is so swelled up she can't see the bone, and it's turned a mottled green and black. Wiggling her toes hurts; an experimental foot-flex attempt and nothing happens except a jab of pain.

Johnny comes back in, looking exasperated. "Hey, I --" He stops and stares at her foot. "Wow. Maybe you should get that looked at."

"If it's still like this Sunday morning, I might." She puts her foot back down on the floor -- since it's winter she hasn't bothered shaving her legs in a while, and she doesn't want him noticing. "You were saying?"

"Well, I called seven different cab companies, and nobody's answering."

"That makes sense. If the weather's bad enough buses aren't running, they probably pulled cab drivers in too."

"Yeah. So -- the only other thing I can think of is I drive your car back to my place, and bring it back when the roads clear up?"

"No, stay."

"You sure?"

"I've got a couch. And I don't want you driving if it's bad enough the roads are shutting down."

"Your concern for my welfare is always touching." His voice is dry, but that's a hint of a real smile there.

" _Somebody's_ gotta do it. Just -- if you have to smoke, go on the balcony."

"Understood." He disappears back into the kitchen with the takeout box.

She pulls her stocking back up enough to avoid potential embarrassment and puts her feet up on the table again, then turns the TV on. It's a tossup between _Barney Miller_ and _The Dukes of Hazzard_ , apparently. _Eh, if I want to see guys acting like doofuses, I can just go into work._

"Hey -- "

She jumps again before she fully registers Johnny standing next to the couch -- okay, this is getting ridiculous.

"Twitchy, are we?" He hands her something heavy and pebbled and cold -- _bag of ice, why didn't I think of that?_ \-- and flops down next to her.

"A bit. Thanks." She puts the bag on her ankle and slouches back down into the cushions.

"Nice TV. Is that a Jennifer's Admirer Special?"

"Yep. Even threw in the remote." She mutes the _Barney Miller_ cops' antics.

"Maybe I should drop some hints, see if she can get me a new fridge."

"Last I heard, she's working on getting one for the office. Microwave oven, too."

"Should make lunch easier."

Long silence, except for the radiator's hum starting up. The pain's starting to take its teeth out of her ankle, and the tension's starting to leave her muscles -- funny how tense pain can make you, so that you barely notice till it's easing up --

Johnny, sounding as tired as she feels: "So, you mind explaining _why_ you weren't eating? You're not on some diet bullshit, are you?"

"No, it's -- " She sighs. "I...hate dealing with food this time of year. I hate this _time of year_ , actually."

"Ass-end of winter. Don't think anyone likes it."

"I _hate_ winter. At least the part after New Year's. I mean, the holidays are nice and distracting for the first part, but then..."

"Winter wonderland turns into that gray crap that always freezes in your car's wheel wells."

"Yeah -- once it's January you can _think_ again, y'know?" She stares up at the ceiling. "Sometimes that's not good."

"I try to avoid too much thought myself around now. Just...go where the top layer of brain static takes you."

"Does that explain your programming choices?"

"Probably. That and I don't think I've slept more than four hours a night for weeks. Does it explain your eating choices?"

"Well, I lose my appetite -- " She stops. On the TV, silent ruckus: Barney yelling at Wojo abut something. Low radio noise drifting in from the kitchen.

Finally, she makes herself say it. "When the thing with Carl happened? He moved out right after Christmas? And then I could think and I didn't want to. My parents would still invite him over for dinner sometimes, and I couldn't eat with him there, and -- I was glad it was winter so I could put on, like, five layers of clothes? I didn't eat that winter if I could help it, I...kept thinking if I was smaller, wasn't, you know, developed, maybe he wouldn't have done it."

"Well, he didn't do it because of how you looked. He did it because he's a child-molesting asshole."

"I know."

"Do you really, though?"

She wonders -- not for the first time -- how he can be so completely out to lunch about some things and so weirdly perceptive about others. "I try. That's about all I can do."

"I know _that_ tune." Johnny puts his hands behind his head. "Maybe, remember to eat, and every time you do think of it as telling him to fuck off? If that helps."

"It might."

"I mean, we've already had someone faint live on our airwaves, once is enough."

"True. So why aren't you sleeping?"

"Hell if I know. I mean, I always have trouble, but -- maybe it's the light these days, or something." He sighs. "I got kinda drunk last night, just so I could pass out for a while, but that's not really _sleeping_."

"I thought so."

"It's that obvious?"

"Only by deduction."

"Hm. I...kinda don't remember the last couple morning shows real well. 'S why I double-played stuff. Um, don't tell Travis that."

"Journalist confidentiality applies." 

"Thanks. I dunno, mid-January's like...a damn steamroller."

"It _is_ depressing. Just, weather-wise, never mind anything else."

"Yeah." He closes his eyes. "My dad yelled a lot more in winter. I mean, he always yelled, but -- I think he probably had that, whatd'youcallit, seasonal affect whatsit."

"That's still no reason to yell at people."

"Oh, he never _needed_ a reason. Yelled himself right into the grave, coronary-wise, a couple months before Laurie was born. I wasn't the least bit surprised when it happened."

"Oh."

"Yeah, Paula couldn't figure out why I wasn't sad. Couldn't really tell her it was 'cause I knew now he'd never yell at our kid."

"Maybe you should've tried." She hopes that doesn't sound rude.

"Nah, she wouldn't've understood. You gotta dad who...kicks in your door at two a.m. to haul you outta bed and yell about something, people can't relate, y'know?"

She notices his sudden shift to second-person there, but it'd be weird to point it out, so she just says the next thing that comes into her head before she chickens out. "I bet it could mess up your sleep patterns, though."

"Okay, analyst."

She elbows him, just a little. "No, really, though."

"Probably right. Should I call you Freud?"

"Call me Jung. I never liked Freud." Her eyes are starting to close involuntarily, and she blinks against it.

"Me neither. Though he _does_ kinda explain Herb."

"I think 'the school of middle-aged insecurity' explains Herb."

"Yeah. Well, his Cordoba is the Car of Overcompensation either way."

A brief blink of darkness, and then she opens her eyes again to find her head against Johnny's shoulder, and he's not moving away and this is pretty comfortable actually --

"I think I'm passing out," he mutters.

"Likewise." And, hey, his arm is around her, hand resting lightly on her wrist, and she doesn't mind this at _all_ but if it's just that they're both this tired -- "Maybe I oughta move?"

"I don't know. Can't really think of anyone else I'd rather be unconscious with."

She's glad he can't see her no-doubt-doofy smile at hearing that. "That really the best you can think of?"

"Well, I wouldn't turn down Debbie Harry or Pat Benatar, either. But they'd turn me down, so, you know."

"Yeah, but I'd look silly in a silver miniskirt and fishnet tights." Her eyes are closing again, and this time she doesn't fight it.

"No, you wouldn't."

She can feel herself blushing like a high-school kid again. "Okay, I'd _feel_ silly."

"Eh. Feelin' silly's not s'bad. I do it all the time."

"All right then, _you_ can wear the tights and the miniskirt."

"Hey, there's an idea. I could get the _Rocky Horror_ soundtrack 'n play _that_ for a...cheerful morning show...Travis'd prob'ly..." Johnny's voice fades to a murmur, and then nothing.

"He'd have apoplexy," she manages, right before everything grays out.

*********

She wakes sometime deep in the night to limp to the bathroom. Her ankle doesn't feel quite as swollen anymore, but it still hurts plenty; shuffling like an old lady helps.

Watery bluish TV-light is flickering across the living room when she comes back out, instead of the fuzz of sign-off static -- the first morning news, so dawn can't be more than an hour and a half away. Images of piles of snow in the streets downtown, and then footage of a snowplow trundling down some suburban road. She wonders if Venus is still stuck at the station, or if Moss even made it in.

Johnny is still completely clocked out on the couch, sprawled limply and heavily like a sleeping cat, and she really ought to go in the bedroom if she's going to crash some more, it'd probably be more comfortable, and she goes over and fits herself back into the space where she'd been. Johnny stirs and mumbles something and wraps his arm back around her, and goes still again.

The next time she opens her eyes it's light outside, sort of, that thin gray light you get in the deepest part of winter. Through the balcony door, she sees big snowflakes drifting intermittently past, and a fringe of icicles lining the roof's edge.

The TV's now showing the _Price is Right_ wheel spinning, and that means -- she stares at the clock -- hey, it's after 11, she must have been more tired than she thought. Her clothes are itching after sleeping in them. She carefully disentangles herself from Johnny (who doesn't even move when she does, honestly she'd be a little worried about him if he wasn't snoring faintly), and goes into the bedroom to change.

She's glad she remembered to do laundry Wednesday night -- her good black pajamas are clean, otherwise she'd only have the ratty ones that she'd never wear in front of anyone. She puts them on with a small sigh of relief, then sits on the edge of the bed and extends her leg to look at her ankle. The bruising has spread, but she can flex it a little now, though it hurts to do it.

Johnny is curled into a sleeping ball on the couch when she goes back out. She stops to pick the ice bag (now a water bag) off the floor, and goes into the kitchen to make coffee. Once the pot's going, she turns the radio up just enough to identify Moss's gravelly voice droning about six inches of snow and all the plows being out, and how mail and transit service won't resume till later this afternoon.

She yawns widely, and then drops the scoop before she can put it back in the coffee jar. It bounces off the counter and into the sink with a sharp clatter.

"Hwuzzat?" And Johnny is suddenly sitting up and looking around. She has to consciously keep from laughing -- he looks like something that just popped up out of a Whack-a-Mole game.

"Good morning, sunshine," she says instead.

"Mnergh." He stares at the clock, then starts counting on his fingers with a slightly confused look.

"We were asleep for about fourteen hours, if that's what you're wondering."

"Oh." He gets up with a stifled groan, and stumbles out through the balcony door, blinking like a small crabby owl.

She fishes the scoop out of the sink -- it's wet, she can't put it back in the jar, so she just sets it down. Thankfully she'd left the aspirin on the counter in here last time she had a headache, and wow does it taste _terrible_ going down with overly chlorinated tap water.

The faint whir of the balcony door opening and closing, and then Johnny comes into the kitchen, looking marginally more awake. "Hey, did you look out there yet? It's like the Arctic."

"Moss was just on saying six inches."

"I think that parking lot got drift. Your car's up to its hubcaps."

"Good thing I don't have to go anywhere this weekend. Coffee?"

"Please." He sits down at the kitchen table, rubbing his eyes.

She pours two cups and puts one down in front of him, before settling -- carefully -- into the chair across from him.

"How's your ankle?"

And that reminds her about elevation, and she puts her left foot up on the third chair, tucked underneath the table. "Better. I mean, it bends a little now, at least."

"Bendability's usually better." Johnny picks up the mug with both hands. "At least body-part-wise -- hey, how come you never make this stuff this strong at work?"

"Because six out of eight people there are looking for _coffee_ and not an electric jumpstart. Well, five out of eight if Herb's been out schmoozing with clients."

"Okay, we'll get an extra coffee pot, and label it 'high-octane.' Attach a little sign like one of those 'toxic' placards they put on chemical trucks."

"You're in a better mood."

"Sleep knits up the raveled sleeve of care, what can I say."

"When were you reading Shakespeare?"

"Hey, I read. I mean, they forced me to read _that_ back in high school, but the point stands."

"Acknowledged." The coffee _is_ a bit strong, maybe one-half less scoop next time. "Maybe you just needed a change of venue from that apartment."

"Yeah, or better company."

She smiles into her cup at that. "You weren't smoking earlier? The landlord gets cranky about litter from that -- "

"Left the smokes at the station. And they'll be gone once Moss gets his tentacles on them. Maybe I should quit again earlier this year."

"Can't hurt." She really wants to say something serious, something like _Hey, this zonking out together was pretty great, we should do it again sometime,_ or maybe _You've got nice eyes, you know that?_ or -- but how does anyone say things like that without sounding stupid, anyway?

She blurts out the next thought after that: "Um -- I say this out of friendship? You...need to bathe and change clothes." _Oh God, yeah, that's_ real _attractive to say, get it_ together, _will you?_

"I've reached the off-putting stage?"

"Not quite, but another day or so, yeah."

"Duly noted."

"You can wash up here while you're waiting for the bus, if you want." Jeez, is offering that too familiar, or -- "There's some old clothes of mine in the linen closet that'd probably fit you."

"It's not a silver miniskirt and fishnet tights, is it?"

"No."

"Good. It's too cold for that." He gets up and starts to say something, yawns, and then stares sleepily at her. "Um. I should probably go do that before I get distracted."

"Go forth, laser-focus."

Johnny gives her a thumbs-up and shuffles out.

Finishing her coffee on an empty stomach probably isn't a great idea, especially after taking aspirin, she thinks. She checks the cabinet and yes, there's cereal left, but all the bowls -- most of the dishes, actually -- are in the sink, when _was_ the last time she did dishes anyway?

Splashing sounds come through the wall, and then some off-tempo whistling -- that song about the dock of the bay. She smiles as she fishes a bowl out of the pile and clears enough sink space to wash it. It suddenly occurs to her that he's currently naked in her home, and isn't she a little old to be giggling slightly about that?

_I wonder what he'd do if I just...climbed in there with him_. She won't actually _do_ that, of course -- lack of birth control and sense of propriety -- and she's not sure she could deal with him, or _any_ guy, staring at her naked. Especially in a bathroom. (The sudden mental image of Carl leaning over her makes her stomach lurch, and she takes a deep breath and pushes it out of her head, _nope, not today, brain._ )

Besides, with her ankle like this, she'd probably just overbalance and knock them both down, and the idea of trying to explain an attempted-shower-seduction injury to some crabby ER attendant is just too stupid for words. It's an interesting thought, though, even if she's not sure quite where it would fit in this...whatever it is...between them that they've been circling like nervous cats and occasionally poking sharp sticks at for the past year and a half. Like the one time they'd kissed and then never spoken of it again, like it would break something if they did.

_You don't have to figure it all out now_. She concentrates on loading the dishwasher.

Once that's whirring and sloshing away, cereal, and the same question of milk or toast or whether to get a banana as there is every morning these days, it'd probably be healthier but more complicated and, besides, the calories --

"Fuck off," she says to the bowl of cereal.

"A simple 'hello' would've sufficed."

She looks up as Johnny comes in. She'd been right about her old clothes fitting him, though the paint-spattered sweatpants are a little short on him, and that Ohio State shirt has holes in the elbows.

"No, I was just trying what you said about food."

"Good. Nice to know _someone_ takes my advice once in a while." He gets the takeout box from the fridge and sits down at the table, and she joins him.

"Well, there _was_ that time a couple hundred people dumped garbage on the city hall steps because of something you said on the air."

"Please. I try not to think about that, like, ever." The remaining pizza slices have fused into something that reminds her of the metamorphic rocks from college geology class. Johnny looks at it, shrugs, and peels one off the top. "'S good you're eating, though."

"Self-care. You should try it more often."

"We both should."

She thinks: _Oh, what the hell_. "How about, you tell me if you think I'm not eating, and I tell you if you're looking too much like a mangy street cat? At least till spring comes."

"That could work. I _might_ even try going to bed early tonight. After what Travis said, I think I better be in with time to spare tomorrow."

"So you can cheerful up your playlist?"

"No, so I can hide all the duct tape."

And as she laughs at that, she decides: she's getting toast and peanut butter, too.


End file.
